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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26917822">i've just seen a face</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Beatles (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops &amp; Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Strangers to Lovers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 01:07:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,225</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26917822</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>george's starbucks career is boring shit until a customer with the bluest eyes in the world defends him from a rude-ass lady. will he ever get his shit together and give him his number??</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>George Harrison &amp; Paul McCartney, George Harrison/Ringo Starr</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>George wasn’t even a coffee person, but it was the only place around that was hiring uni students. The smell of hot drinks and cinnamon wasn’t as bad as it tasted, and when Paul joined up the week after him, he began to actually enjoy his job. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Employee discounts and Paul as his carpool/smoke break partner included, Starbucks was more or less an even stabler way of extra cash then originally thought. Their manager was very nice, and had even allowed them a table if they had to cram for exams. Paul had bagged it first one day right before morning rush, plopping his huge medical tome on the wood before George could even step out of the car with his books.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not now,” George groaned at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I read the timetable wrong,” Paul said, making his big Tip-Me-Extra eyes. “Exam’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>tomorrow,</span>
  </em>
  <span> not next week.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George flipped him off. But he slapped on his smile when the customers started pouring in. Midway it started raining, which meant more people came in to shelter from the storm. Paul eventually got up and hustled helping George with the influx of people. The blenders whirred into overtime and all the tables were taken. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George was beyond tired after the first hour. Even worse still, Paul suddenly panicked of a stomachache and fled to the bathroom. George rushed to hold the fort, where a woman was thankfully too occupied with texting to notice the change of barista. He straightened himself up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning, what can I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, finally some service.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry ma’am, my friend needed the—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want a venti caramel macchiato, one thirds soy milk, two thirds almond milk, double the amount of caramel and vanilla syrup with nonfat whipped cream, extra ice and pumpkin spice sprinkled on top. You got that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“.............sorry, what size?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For <em>Pete’s</em> sake, you’re really making me repeat that?” The woman rolled her eyes so far back George suppressed a laugh. “A </span>
  <em>
    <span>venti.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The </span>
  <em>
    <span>big </span>
  </em>
  <span>cup. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This one,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> she said like he was a child, and pointed an overly bejeweled finger at the display near the pastry case. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright ma’am, that’ll be seven pounds fifteen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Daylight robbery,” she hissed, and slammed her card on the tap pay. It lit up with a red screen. “What is the meaning of this??”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just what it says ma’am, your card’s been declined.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The people behind her started to grumble. She stared at him angrily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We accept cash,” George suggested politely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the hell is wrong with this card??” The lady yelled. “I used it here yesterday and it worked perfectly fine! Your machine’s bloody faulty, I tell you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think so ma’am, it worked </span>
  <em>
    <span>perfectly fine</span>
  </em>
  <span> with the guy before ye.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How dare you! Let me speak to your manager!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>the manager,” George lied. He very much hoped his actual manager wasn’t here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well then, this is the <em>WORST STARBUCKS I HAVE EVER BEEN TO!”</em> she yelled. George willed Paul to dash out and charm his way out for them both. “Your service is absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>disgraceful—”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my God, are you done??” said the man behind her. He was soaked through the bone despite the brolly he clutched in an equally over-bejeweled hand. “You’re going to yell at him over a fuckin’ coffee???”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t talking to <em>you!”</em> She easily towered over him. “Who do you think you are?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Someone who values treating people with respect,” he said, staring at her with steely blue eyes. “And with <em>no</em> thanks to you, is gonna be late cause you held the poor barista up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George was stunned. Several others behind him agreed. One person even clapped. The man instead walked past her and held out three five pound notes for George to take. “I’ll pay, just take it and go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman glared at him before turning her nose up and striding to the end of the counter. George could barely remember how to use the register. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he said to the man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright. Can I just get a small latte?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why can’t we all order like you do?” George joked. Probably. The man smiled at him and he was the best thing he’d seen all day. He wiped his wet hair as George counted out his change. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold on, your name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For the cup?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh! Ritchie with a ‘t’.” And he smiled at him again. George smiled back, but turned back quickly to serve the rest of the line. When Paul came running in shortly after, George scanned the shop for Ritchie— and he was nowhere to be seen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had taken his coffee to go, after all. </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>When the rain cleared in the afternoon, Paul hounded George for cigs. George threw the pack at him and lit his own, hoping Paul wouldn’t ask anything about this morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So that <em>horrible</em> Karen,” Paul said. “What happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George groaned deeply. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She was so loud I 'eard it all the way in the loo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks a lot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was havin' exam nerves! Did you give yer knight yer number?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My— my what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Knight in shinin armour! The guy who stood up for ye!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span><em>“Oh?</em> Did he come with her or somethin’?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, thank God, he just foot her bill so she’d fuck off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“AND he stood up for you! How</span>
  <em>
    <span> perfect!”</span>
  </em>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George gave him an odd look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Every great love story begins in a coffee shop,” Paul explained. “PLEASE say ye gave him yer number.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, and why don’t I just write me number on the board instead of today’s drinks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, fuck. George </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>had half a mind to scribble it down when he passed Ritchie his napkin. But there wasn’t a pen in sight save for the marker they used on cups. And something told him handing Ritchie a black-smudged napkin wouldn’t be great for his chances of getting a call. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Plus, it’d been just sheer chance. A lucky chance. And what were the odds he’d come back to their Starbucks? </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The odds were in his favour. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two days later, as Paul parked the car and George went ahead to unlock the doors, there </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> was leaning against the windowpane. In a leather jacket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ritchie??” George said, dropping the keys. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ritchie laughed. “You remembered!” He stretched into a yawn as George bent quickly to retrieve them, looking so effortlessly cool. Around them both the street was still bright from the street lights, and when George felt Ritchie’s eyes on him again he felt as if he were being lit up. As he opened the doors Ritchie strolled in with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re not opening yet, we’ve got to set up first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can wait! But mostly I came to check if you were alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George stared. “Me??”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you! </span>
  </em>
  <span>That missy was so mean to ye.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George fucking cringed. Getting yelled at by the entitled bird in front of the whole shop was no way he ever wanted to be remembered, and especially not by this kind, gorgeous man. He sat at his and Paul’s study table near the counter and grinned at George as he turned on the lights. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm alright, thanks. Bound to happen when ye work in service."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It really </span>
  <em>
    <span>shouldn't</span>
  </em>
  <span> happen," Ritchie looked at him with concern. "You do so much, you deserve better! And ye </span>
  <em>
    <span>run</span>
  </em>
  <span> this joint, she really had no right screaming the place down—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I, uh, I don't really....."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Huh?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I only said I was manager so she'd, well..... m-maybe stop?"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>WHAT THE HELL WAS WRONG WITH HIM?? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"You mean you're not the manager?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>".....................no."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Damn," But Ritchie chuckled with his hand over his mouth. "That's awesome!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wh-what?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The amount of big dick</span>
  <em>
    <span> energy</span>
  </em>
  <span> ye had! </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lemme speak to yer manager!</span>
  </em>
  <span> 'I <em>AM</em> the manager!'"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even his laugh was adorable. George grinned to himself momentarily. Then Paul came in a few minutes later, swinging the door hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Motherfuckin </span>
  <em>
    <span>dickhead</span>
  </em>
  <span> took me fuckin parkin space just as I was making the turn! So what if you've got a fuckin Porsche, I was there fi— oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>hello</span>
  </em>
  <span> sir! Have you ordered?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George froze and nearly dropped the teacups he was cleaning. Paul had heard the commotion, but did he get a good look?? Was he about to die from teasing or his heart exploding???</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm still deciding," Ritchie said casually. "What do you recommend?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ye say that like we're a restaurant," Paul giggled. George turned, and Paul was leaned over at the table with his arse out and palms flat. And the Tip Me Eyes. </span>
  <span>That fucking son of a</span>
  <span> bitch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't come here often," Ritchie said. "Never even set foot in a Starbucks since two days ago."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No bloody </span>
  <em>
    <span>way!</span>
  </em>
  <span> How did you even live??"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I managed pretty okay if I say so myself. My mate just called me to meet him early and I popped in the first place I saw."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucky chance. Emphasis on </span>
  <em>
    <span>lucky. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll say.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So about the recs?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh yeah! So I'm a med student, and coffee's basically me best friend y’know," Paul simpered, and George could FEEL his flirty sweetness slipping all over him. He was gonna kill him. "The chocolate espresso has its very own place in my heart, and I say only our </span>
  <em>
    <span>George's</span>
  </em>
  <span> the only one who makes it decent."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George's head snapped towards them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"George?" Ritchie said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"In the flesh," Paul pointed right at him and winked. WINKED. OH GOD. “If you want him to add extra chocolate, all ya have to do is</span>
  <em>
    <span> ask.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>George waved awkwardly, which would’ve been a great move if the rag in his hand wasn’t wet and didn’t spray water on everything within ten inches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ritchie waved back. “Hi George!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d kill Paul later. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ritchie ordered a muffin and Paul’s rec of chocolate espresso when Starbucks officially opened for the day, sitting at their study table with a sleek laptop out. George had to fight not to combust with him so near the counter </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>not strangling Paul, who was making the most obnoxious kissing noises with his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Ritchie, if anything, was a bloody gentleman. When George was done serving the last customer in the rush line, he turned to see him looking at him over his laptop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not in a hurry today,” George meant to ask, but it sounded so curt when it came out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m early,” he said. </span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“I read the time wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You and Paul alike.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He, uh, forgets his exams left and right,” George checked no one was coming before leaning in on the counter, but with his arms instead. “That’s med kids for ye…. what do you do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Studio photography.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>THIS MAN WORKED PROFESSIONALLY??? That couldn’t be. He looked just like a uni student with his joggers and sports hoodie that rainy morning. And he was even more baby-faced than Paul. “You have a job?” George said rather stupidly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had to find </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>to do,” Ritchie laughed, thankfully. “It’s okay on the cash, I guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Definitely beats here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For all the flack you took? It better be!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m really fine about that,” George tried to smile back. Ritchie’s big, friendly grin deserved some appreciation. He only hoped he didn’t look like a fuckin vampire. “I’ve had worse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You what??”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not from customers! From me teachers!” George said before Ritchie could choke. “I was pretty shit at handin up my work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” Ritchie nodded. “Same here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My mum said it’s a miracle I even got into uni. You ditched a lot?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kinda hard to ditch while you’re out cold in hospital,” Ritchie said so causally George felt like he had smacked him. “Hey, don’t worry, I’m okay now!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Were—were you in an accident, or—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Noooo, my appendix kinda burst. One thing led to another and I, well, kinda missed out a lot. Nuff ‘bout me. What’re you doin?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George gestured hopelessly at the nametag on his apron.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh sorry,” Ritchie chuckled again. “I meant what’re ye </span>
  <em>
    <span>studying.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Botany.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?? Ye totally don’t look it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>OH FUCKING HELL IT WAS OFFICIAL, HE LOOKED LIKE A VAMPIRE HARDASS. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“.....I don’t?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought maybe you did med school like What’s His Face.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George snorted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ritchie only laughed again, but stopped when his phone buzzed and he had to respond to a text. He started gathering up his laptop into a case.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I haven't been here<em> that</em> long!" he said, as though he hadn't literally followed George right in here this morning. It was now or never. Ritchie’s plate was empty, but his cup was three-quarters gone and wet all over. George grabbed the cup marker and some napkins from the dispenser beside him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Need anything for the road?" he asked. Say yes. Say yes. SAY YES.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'd love a muffin," Ritchie said, and George wasted no time scooping the fattest blueberry one they had off into a box. He quickly scribbled his number into one of the napkins as Ritchie was counting his pounds, God don't stop him now—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Pardon me," an old man with a wet sleeve and half empty coffee in his hand came up to the counter. "May I have a napkin?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George thrust one at him as Ritchie took the box off the counter and turned to the doors. "Thanks, George!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George smiled greatly as he waved him off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The old man tapped him on the shoulder. "Uh, pardon again."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, sir?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A <em>clean</em> one, please."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The old man held out the napkin in his hand, and it was covered entirely in George's phone number. </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Paul wheezed hard when George told him all this later at the back of the shop, and he highly doubted it was the cigs. "You fucking what!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was distracted!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"BY AN OLD MAN WITH COFFEE ALL OVER HIMSELF!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"BY MY</span>
  <em>
    <span> JOB,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> George huffed, and stomped out his cig impulsively. "Fuckin hell."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey, it's okay!" Paul rubbed his shoulder. "Ye got to talk more, didn't ye?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So what?? I probably won't see 'im again."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul looked at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Every. Great. Love story—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not fuckin in love with him! I barely know him!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then why are ye so upset?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> he upset? He saw hundreds of people every day. And there was no way a 'great love story' could happen in a coffee shop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> coffee shop. And definitely not to him. Days passed and e</span>
  <span>xams came and went, and Ritchie hadn’t returned. George and Paul shared the table studying for their final one as the other baristas took over for the day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dinner hour came quick. “Scooch over,” said Ivan, one of Paul’s med mates. He looped his green apron over his head and pulled up the last chair at their table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’re you doing??” Paul nearly yelled. “You can’t leave Pete all on his own! He’ll blow up the blender!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He </span>
  <em>
    <span>better</span>
  </em>
  <span> not; I’m the one who had to teach him to use it again—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> have an exam tomorrow?” George asked as Ivan took out his phone and opened a game. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I already studied.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“FUCKING PLAY THAT SOMEWHERE ELSE!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Paul thundered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan just laughed. He kicked off his sneakers and huddled in on himself in the chair, tapping away. George snorted. He turned to look at the counter, where a tired looking Pete was scribbling on cups for a rowdy group of teens. He sighed, grabbing his apron as he got up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete looked genuinely surprised when George came in to help, but spared no time passing him his share of the cups. He readies the tap pay and sorts cash and wipes up puddles of milk Pete’s spilled on the counter. God, how did this guy get hired?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re down to their last drink for the group, for which the cup Pete quickly took from George to the blender in order to prove himself. George picked up the rag to clean the teacups that were piling in the sink, when the door’s bell rang out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Many things happened at once then. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan, engrossed in his game, swore loudly. Paul, startled, dropped his heavy medical tome on the floor with a THUD.  Ritchie, talking on the phone, joined the queue. George, his brain in a fog, squeezed his rag. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then the blender behind him burst.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>Ivan put down his game to phone their manager Brian, who was very relieved that the only casualty had been the machine. He checked in personally with George and Pete, and told them they could close early if they wanted. And also slid a not so subtle order for Ivan and Paul to please pass everyone present a coupon. </p><p>Paul sat George in a chair and checked the back of his head for blender debris, but found only cookie bits and milk. But still George was bloody mortified. Ritchie's eyes had gone wide and he had crouched over something at his waist. He thought he heard Paul clear his throat, so he looked up and instead came face-to-face with bright blue.</p><p>"Are you okay?" Ritchie asked, face full of concern. He looked at Paul. "Is he hurt? Something hit him?"</p><p>"His head's as right as rain," Paul slapped George's wet back. "Not sure bout his ego, though<span>—"</span></p><p>
  <span>"Fuck off," George snarled, head down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul pretended to take offense, but laughed before he cleared off finally to get the mop. George looked at Ringo again. On the shoulder of his leather jacket was an unmistakable patch of white milk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're really okay?" Ritchie said. His smile was so <em>kind;</em> George wanted to return it so badly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, yeah," he said instead. "You've... got somethin' on ye."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ritchie simply wiped his shoulder off. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black hanky. There was no way George could mop all of himself up with it, but he took it anyway. He smiled at Ritchie finally, thinking of what he should say. Maybe Ivan or Paul could make his order, and then he'd be free to ask the very damned question. No napkins, no markers, no more being fucking emabrrassed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Ritchie didn't see. He had turned his back and was gesturing for something. George looked behind him, and of all things he was confused when a little boy came running up. Ritchie scooped him up into his arms with a joyful noise and bounced him slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Um."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The little boy stared back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't stare, Jules. It's not nice," Ritchie said gently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sorry."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If it weren't for all the milk all over his hair, George would've thought he was sweating. What the hell was going on? Did no one see this? Ivan and Pete and Paul were everywhere else, calming the commotion with coupons. But right at the table it was just him, the man he'd tried to woo and the little boy curled right against his chest—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door's bell jangled. George turned to see a bespectacled bloke in a suit and tie saunter in. He walked past everyone and headed straight for Ritchie. Little Jules perked up upon seeing him and reached out for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey guys," he said, and planted a kiss SMACK on Ritchie's cheek as he took Jules into his arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George felt his stomach drop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Took you long enough," Ritchie said fondly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Couldn't find a spot." The bloke said. Then he noticed George sitting with his mouth slack open. "Oh man! You're a<em> mess!</em> What happened to ye?"</span>
</p>
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